


heavy quiet of the day

by Phoenix_of_Athena



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, Like kinda but not really, Past Character Death, References to Shakespeare, Self-Deception, Slice of Life, Suicidal Thoughts, The Mundane Trappings of Daily Life, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Trauma, hopelessness, no beta we die like everyone in canon who we love, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29783958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena
Summary: It was with heavy, bone-deep resignation that Ciel opened his eyes to the familiar canopy of his bed.  For a long, hazy moment, there were no thoughts.  Then a whisper slipped into his mind: “Ah.  Another morning.Damn.”...Therewas onething, it seemed, that sparked some motivation in him; the samesingle thingwhich kept him going through the worst of it: the dark, bitter resentment that Ciel held inside his stomach: his festering rage and refusal to show weakness, especially before thecreaturewho had seen him at his lowest.
Relationships: Ciel Phantomhive & Real Ciel Phantomhive, Sebastian Michaelis & Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	heavy quiet of the day

**Author's Note:**

> So, I got depressed and slipped back into my angsty comfort fandom. Love you, Kuroshitsuji. I missed you.  
> ....I wonder if my writing's improved at all since I last wrote Kuro. I _feel_ like it has, but eh.  
> lmk if I forgot to tag for anything.

It was with heavy, bone-deep resignation that Ciel opened his eyes to the familiar canopy of his bed. For a long, hazy moment, there were no thoughts. Then a whisper slipped into his mind: “Ah. Another morning. _Damn_.”

A soft sigh escaped his lips, and he closed his eyes, sinking into his pillow as he waited for Sebastian to come to wake him up. There was no point, really, in waiting; he could get up on his own, and a part of him—the part of him that took vicious pleasure in every instance of his own independence and competence—made some half-hearted mutterings before it was drowned in a sea of apathy, gray and dark like the muted light behind his eyelids. If Ciel could muster the energy to want _anything_ right now, it would be to simply stay in bed and avoid existing for a while longer.

Unfortunately, as happened with most things that Ciel cared about, Sebastian ruined that futile hope. The demon butler bustled in with the gentle clatter of his china tea set, and Ciel forced himself upright. There _was_ _one_ thing, it seemed, that sparked some motivation in him this morning; the same _single thing_ which kept him going through the worst of it: the dark, bitter resentment that Ciel held inside his stomach: his festering rage and refusal to show weakness, especially before the _creature_ who had seen him at his lowest.

“What tea do you have for me today?” he asked coolly, voice low and composed, and Sebastian answered back in his own smooth baritone, though Ciel didn’t listen the actual words.

Warmth met the palms of his hands, and he looked down in into a fragile, delicate cup that he didn’t remember taking. He wondered how it would feel clench his fingers around the cup—how much force it would take to shatter, just from the tension of his clutch—he wondered if he could do it, or if he was too weak. He raised the teacup to his lips, and the taste of Lady Gray tea met his tongue: dark, and with a hint of lemon.

Dislodging his duvet and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Ciel allowed Sebastian to dress him for the day. He tuned out the demon’s amusement over his disinclination to clothe himself. He usually _did_ dress himself these days, unlike when he was young and new to being on his own, when he’d been so desperate for someone to do something _for_ him, disguised though it was as an act of servitude.

Ciel found himself at breakfast. Then he found himself in his study, staring sightlessly at bank statements and property records and requests for funds from his county’s people. He knew these figures like the back of his hand, but today he couldn’t muster up the usual focus. He was _tired._ He was so tired, all the time, and he had been for a while. Some days, he couldn’t wait for it all to just be _over;_ for the blank, dark, emptiness that awaited him in the demon’s stomach. For _nonexistence_. …For being finished with the fight, with the charade, and finally…stopping. 

Sighing sharply though his nose, Ciel rubbed a hand over his face and forced himself to read the reports once again. 

Putting his pen to paper, he worked though his accounting, sheets of paper slowly migrating from one stack to another. 

Lunchtime rolled around, and Ciel scarfed bites at his desk, nibbling distractedly while he worked, penning letters to his Funtom Co. managers. 

There was a letter to the Queen, and he waded through decorum and tact in attempt to get answers that would never come. 

And then, finally, he could stop. Sebastian looked in through the door to ask if he would take his dinner in his study, and disappeared again at his master’s sharp assent.

Ciel gazed blankly at the finished paperwork in stacks and closed his eyes against a headache. He slumped down in his chair, slowly sinking until the front of his knees met the front panel of his desk and his eyeline sunk beneath the tabletop. It hurt his neck, already sore from craning over paperwork all day, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. 

“What’s a little more pain,” he muttered, “doesn’t matter.” Sometimes certain sorts of hurt were even _good._ Were what he wanted…what he _needed_.

Reaching for a desk drawer, Ciel shifted aside a lockbox and then a stack of books for the anthology at the bottom.

Shakespeare wasn’t usually a guilty pleasure; it was a respectable, though somewhat frivolous, reading choice. But this copy didn’t leave the drawer unless Ciel wanted one story in particular.

When he was a child (and a small, pitiful part of him protests that he is _still_ a child), back when he wasn’t _Ciel_ yet and couldn’t even conceive of it, he and his brother had read Twelfth Night and laughed—it was a comedy, after all. When their mother had given them a copy of the play, it had been in fun, a jest due to their being twins.

Reading wasn’t such lighthearted fun these days, though nothing _was—_ it was an escape, and this one hurt to read. Viola lost her brother, and she mourned. It was a shallow pain. But her hope…it was her _hope_ later on that cut him. It was the joyous, comedic end, the reunion that tied everything up in the typical Shakespeare way of marriage—despite the fact that Olivia married someone who she _didn’t love—_ despite the fact that people were _more than just a face in common—_ despite a hundred misunderstandings and deceptions that should only have caused harm— _that’s_ what hurt.

Ciel placed the book, closed, on his desk when Sebastian came back in with dinner, and sat up in his chair. He gazed down at the polished silver of the dinner tray, and wondered if he would _always_ have looked just like his brother, or if they would have grown into different features as they aged. 

It didn’t really matter. It didn’t matter anymore, but he couldn’t help the drifting of his thoughts on days like this; they always went to the places he tried to avoid. 

…He was exceptionally good at avoiding such wonderings, usually. He was good at lying, even to himself— _especially_ to himself. It was an invaluable life skill, to be able to self-correct and put himself back on the right path, ignoring things that hurt; telling himself “that couldn’t happen,” and “you’re mistaken,” or “it doesn’t matter,” or “it’s all right.”

Ciel ate the food in front of him. It was delicious, and he ate it all, even though he wasn’t hungry. Food was valuable. He had enough, but he wouldn’t waste it. He wouldn’t waste _anything_ if he could help it. He would savor the taste; he would savor the comfort of his clothes and the cushion of his desk chair. He would enjoy being warm, and safe, and in control.

He was in control. It was all right.

Ciel slid the book back into its place at the bottom of the drawer. He didn’t think about it.

Sliding to his feet, he walked to his window and pressed a palm against the glass. It was cold, and fog steamed up around his hand. Outside, it was raining; he hadn’t heard it start.

Swaying forward, he pressed his forehead against the glass and winced at the pinch of cold against his headache. 

The rain fell heavily. It left tracts of muddy puddles on the lawn and turned the drive into a river. His eyes unfocused, turning closer to the rivulets running down the glass, streams twining and twitching, dancing on the surface. He watched the paths change, watched droplets collect and fall, watched water pour like a spout and spatter down from the roof above the window until his study door was knocked on.

He pulled himself upright, still looking towards the grounds.

“Come in.” His voice was clipped.

Behind him, Sebastian entered and took the dinner tray. He made the routine sounds about readying for bed, and Ciel allowed himself to acquiesce.

The demon left, and came back in, and Ciel led the way silently to the bedroom. 

“You accomplished quite a lot today, my lord,” Sebastian murmured, lighting a candle while Ciel dressed for bed. 

“Hm,” Ciel replied. “Not enough. Her Majesty is still avoiding the subject in her letters. At this rate, I’m going to have to send you to investigate the hard way.”

“I assure you, I will get results,” the demon said.

“Next week,” said Ciel, “if we still don’t have any answers,” and he settled into bed. He drew his heavy duvet to his chin, and laid his head upon his pillow. He wondered what his corpse would look like in its coffin; if it would lie like he did now, still and pale and wan, or if he would have artificial life painted on his cheeks. He didn’t think he wanted anyone to see his corpse, though it was traditional. The more he thought about it, the more it made him sick. Nausea rolled at the back of his throat as Sebastian snuffed out the candle.

“Sleep well, my Lord.”

**Author's Note:**

> hm, i also haven't read twelfth night since i was thirteen, so if i got the details wrong, then whoops.


End file.
